The Devil in Devon Part Sixteen
The Devil in Devon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Summary: Sequel to "Promise to the Living". Sherlock, John, Mycroft, and Lestrade investigate the devil's reappearance in Devon County after 160 years. What they find out places their lives- and John and Mycroft's relationship- in jeopardy.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve Part Thirteen Part Fourteen Part Fifteen
Four weeks later
From his vantage point on the roof of the government safe house in North London, John sipped coffee and gazed at the streets below. The steady trickle of homeward-bound clubbers, shuffling like zombies in the dirty half-light, had tapered off an hour ago. Now the first wave of morning commuters was making an appearance. Looking wearier than their partied-out predecessors, they headed for the bus stops and Tube stations. Just watching them drag themselves along made John feel tired too.
As he stretched and yawned, the blue spot in the crook of his right elbow caught his eye. He examined it in disapproval: the medical techs here could learn a bit about being gentle. But he wasn't too bothered: the bruise marked the entry point for the dissolving agent that his best friend had spent weeks perfecting. He'd been injected late last night, in accordance with Sherlock's instructions. If the formula actually worked, he'd cherish this mark until it faded, as an emblem of his salvation.
John checked his watch and saw that it was a few minutes past seven. He had been triggered at noon on the day Mycroft rescued him from Sergei's lair. Alexei had said that the bomb was programmed to go off at exactly the same time thirty days later. While most of Britain's citizens were on their lunch breaks today, John would either live or die.
As he stood on the roof, listening to the rumbling buses, honking car horns, and thrum of voices below, John thought about all the things he still wanted to do. Travel, for one. But not to a touristy sunspot: the ruins of Pompeii, perhaps, or the Civil War battle sites in America. He'd always loved places with historic significance. He also wanted to see Harry get off the booze for good, keep watching over Sherlock, and grow old with Mycroft.
John had enough faith in the combined brilliance of Sherlock and Alexei to believe that he would get his chance to do all that and more. But he could not be sure, so fear continued to erode his confidence.
Not wanting to be alone any more, he tossed the paper coffee cup away and went back inside. When he stepped out of the elevator onto the secure floor that contained everyone's sleeping quarters, the first thing he saw was the open door to Elena's room.
Despite the premium medical care, her deterioration had continued. Last week she'd lost the ability to walk unaided and now most of her nutrition came from an IV drip. Such incapacity must have been devastating to a woman who'd been so strong and agile, but she never complained.
Petra was asleep on a cot against the rear wall. The shadows under her eyes were so deep that they resembled smears of purple eye makeup. John worried for her as well as Alexei: Mycroft had granted her amnesty, but when she finally left this place, it would not be with the woman she loved. Like Elena, she remained outwardly brave, but John had noticed her trembling hands and pinched expression, and knew that her composure would leave with her partner's last breath.
God, don't let Mycroft have to suffer a similar loss….
Elena must have heard John exit the elevator, for she opened her eyes when he paused in the doorway. "John," she whispered.
He stepped quietly into the room. "Good morning."
"Today's the day?"
"Yes. At eleven-thirty, I go into the room. At noon, we all find out if the dissolving agent worked."
"The room" was an explosion-proof cell on the facility's lowest level. Government weapons developers tested newly engineered bombs in it. Today it would contain a man instead of an object.
Mycroft was sickened at the thought of John being locked in there alone to await potential annihilation, but they both knew that there was no safe alternative. Sherlock was agitated to the point of mania: after John had received the counter-agent, the detective instantly noticed the bruising around the needle mark and verbally throttled the med tech. Then he followed John everywhere, even into the toilet, and kept up a running litany of scientific explanations as to why the solution should work. When he finally yielded to exhaustion three hours ago, John felt guilty at the immensity of his relief.
Lestrade was being stoic, thank God. John was relying on Greg to keep the Holmes brothers -and later Harry- above water emotionally if the worst came to pass.
"You will survive, John," Elena told him. "Two of the best minds in the country engineered this antidote."
John shook his head slowly. "Alexei is extraordinary. Sometimes I forget he's just a kid."
"Most people do," she smiled.
When Elena, in the presence of John and Mycroft, had told Alexei who his father was, the boy's response surprised all of them. He did not get emotional, or even express anger at being deceived until now. He simply grinned and said, "I know. It's obvious." Then he rattled off the list of clues- their physical and mental similarities, Mycroft's history with his mother- that made his conclusion a natural one. When he was done, he faced Mycroft and said somewhat shyly, "I look forward to getting to know you better." There were no hugs, just a brief but warm handshake that conveyed more acceptance and feeling than words could have. John frequently saw them strolling together throughout the building afterward. "Catching up," Mycroft had explained. John presumed that was 'Holmes-speak' for "Getting to know each other."
Elena's eyes began to close. The brief conversation had already exhausted her. "There are other people you should be talking to now," she murmured. "I need to rest, but do come see me after it's over."
"I will. I promise."
When John went back into the hall, he saw Mycroft emerging from Sherlock's room. Although the elder Holmes was outwardly composed and immaculate- his handmade Italian leather shoes gleamed so brightly that John briefly got spots in his vision- his pale complexion and the lines around his eyes and mouth betrayed his inner unravelling.
"Is Sherlock still asleep?" John asked.
"Practically comatose." Mycroft shook his head. "If he continues to sleep, John, I'm not inclined to wake him when it's time to go-" he winced "-downstairs. I don't think he'd handle the waiting and the uncertainty well."
John touched his hand. "If you don't wake him and the worst happens, he'll never forgive you."
"I know. It's just that he's so fragile right now. He's been practically living in the lab since we arrived, and if I said that he ate an entire sandwich during that time, I'd probably be overestimating."
John didn't doubt it. He'd seen the untouched food trays left outside the lab door, and Sherlock's bed in his assigned room had never been slept in until now. "Be that as it may, we can't make that decision for him."
Mycroft inclined his head. "Perhaps you're right." He paused. "John, I see that you just came down from the roof- you've got soot on your left shoulder and a pigeon feather in your hair- but would you mind terribly if we went back outside? I'd like to… talk. Alone."
John rubbed his shirt sleeve and batted at his hair, grimacing at the dirty feather that floated loose. "Of course. Let's go."
When they stepped onto the roof, the sun was nearing full strength and the city was loud with commuter traffic. Mycroft undid his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and raised his face skyward as if seeking solace in the brilliant warmth. "John," he whispered, sounding broken.
"It's going to be all right, you know." John hugged him from behind. "We're all worried- me more than anyone. But Sherlock and Alexei put everything into it. What could possibly come out of that collaboration except the best case scenario?"
"Waiting is always the worst part," Mycroft agreed. He placed his hands over John's. "I never thought I'd see the day when Sherlock would actually like a child, let alone share lab space with one."
John chuckled as he recalled the powerful working partnership the two had forged. "I'm not surprised, personally. Even if he weren't Alexei's uncle, how could Sherlock not like someone who can recite the periodic table of elements backwards- in English, Polish, and Russian?"
That made the elder Holmes laugh. "I suppose that's true."
John manoeuvred in front of Mycroft and put his arms around his waist. "We've got four hours before the explosives team comes for me," he said softly. "Want to spend them up here?"
Mycroft drew him close. "I'm willing if you are."
As they kissed, John slid his hand into Mycroft's waistcoat, rubbing soothing circles over the other man's chest, which heaved beneath the fine linen shirt. They'd made love during the early morning hours, after Sherlock had fallen asleep, but John now longed for a repeat performance. He told himself that he was both expressing his love and soothing their mutual anxiety- not leaving Mycroft something to remember him by.
Mycroft groaned and was reaching for John's belt when the rooftop door opened. Lowering their hands quickly, both men turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, looking paler and thinner than usual. His expression was neutral, but John and Mycroft instantly saw that beneath the granite face, the younger Holmes was terrified.
"I didn't realize that this was a private moment," he said stiffly, eying their rumpled clothing.
"It's not." John extended his hand. "Come here."
Sherlock approached slowly. He looked ghastly: his already-high cheekbones threatened to poke through his skin, which was a grayish white color, his lips were bloodless, and his eyes had an unnatural, feverish gleam. His purple silk shirt was mottled in places with chemical burns, and his trousers were badly creased. As he drew closer, John's nose told him that the younger man hadn't showered after getting up.
"I'm aware that I look and smell reprehensible," Sherlock said. "But a change of clothes and a bath is not high on my list of priorities right now. In fact, I'm dismayed that I slept for so long."
"It's all right," Mycroft said gently. "John and I decided we'd wait up here until it was time to go to the basement."
"A wise idea. This building has a superb laboratory and reasonably comfortable accommodations, Mycroft, but it's staffed by idiots who think too loudly. Just listening to their inane blather makes me want to go into my mind palace and never come out."
"I'll see what I can do about improving hiring practices."
"Hey." John squeezed his friend's shoulder. "You holding up all right?"
"With difficulty, I admit." Sherlock brushed a few greasy curls from his eyes. "I shall be glad when this is over."
"We all will," Mycroft said.
The loud screech of a car abruptly braking startled all three of them. Sherlock, instantly attracted to potential disaster, hurried toward the roof's edge. When he leaned over to look, John's heart lurched and he cried, "NO!"
Mycroft jumped and Sherlock turned quickly around. "John?"
"Please…" John squeezed his eyes shut. "Just come away from the edge. Seeing you there brings up certain memories."
The younger Holmes looked chastened. "I'm sorry. I forgot." He retraced his steps. When he was standing before John, whose heartbeat was slowly returning to normal, he said in husky, beseeching tones, "See, I came back to you. Now promise that you'll come back to me."
"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, putting one arm around his brother's frail shoulders and pulling him close. For once, Sherlock did not deride the gesture as sentimental nonsense. Exhausted behind his normal resilience, he continued to gaze at his best friend. John choked back tears as he gave his word.
Eleven-thirty came too quickly.
Accompanied by Mycroft, Sherlock, Lestrade, and an eight-man military escort, John rode the elevator to the building's lowest level, which was so tightly guarded that only Mycroft's electronic ID card gave them entry. Dr. Mortensen, a short Norwegian who participated in Elena's care, met them when they stepped out of the elevator and led the way to a closet-sized prep room that contained a wheeled bed and small table. A surgical tray with a glass bottle, alcohol wipes, and a long needle sat atop the latter.
Sherlock caught his breath loudly when John climbed onto the bed and laid back. Lestrade and Mycroft carefully flanked the younger Holmes, ready to restrain him if his self-control broke.
"Do you have any questions, Dr. Watson?" Dr. Mortensen asked gently.
John shook his head. "No, everything's been explained to me. Let's get this over with. I'd hate to miss tea time."
Mycroft's chuckle sounded more like a sob. Sherlock turned to the doctor, so nervous that even his voice vibrated.
"He'll only be in that damned chamber for half an hour, right?"
"That's correct, Mr. Holmes. His vitals will be monitored the entire time. After thirty minutes, the crisis will officially be declared over and Dr. Watson will be transported to his room to recover."
"I want to participate in the monitoring."
"We'll all be in the surveillance room, Sherlock." Mycroft squeezed his brother's arm. "And when John wakes up, I'll force you to accept a Knighthood."
"I'll help him force you, you stubborn sod." John fought to keep his voice even. "Sherlock, I don't know how to thank you."
Sherlock didn't cry, but his glassy eyes and constant shivering warned that he was nearing a nervous collapse. He acknowledged John's words with a jerky nod and stared at the floor.
Dr. Mortensen glanced at the clock. "I'm sorry if this sounds insensitive, but time is running out. We have to proceed."
"We understand," Mycroft said. He moved closer to the bed and grasped John's hand, smiling weakly. "I shall see you later this afternoon. Tea at three?"
John nodded. He heard Dr. Mortensen fiddle with the items on the tray, just before an alcohol wipe made his nostrils and skin tingle. Then the fine-gauge needle slid painlessly into his bicep. As he gazed into Mycroft's eyes, which were now an unearthly shade of blue, John's heart swelled. He managed to say, "I love you" before darkness took the world away.
Part Seventeen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Summary: Sequel to "Promise to the Living". Sherlock, John, Mycroft, and Lestrade investigate the devil's reappearance in Devon County after 160 years. What they find out places their lives- and John and Mycroft's relationship- in jeopardy.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve Part Thirteen Part Fourteen Part Fifteen
Four weeks later
From his vantage point on the roof of the government safe house in North London, John sipped coffee and gazed at the streets below. The steady trickle of homeward-bound clubbers, shuffling like zombies in the dirty half-light, had tapered off an hour ago. Now the first wave of morning commuters was making an appearance. Looking wearier than their partied-out predecessors, they headed for the bus stops and Tube stations. Just watching them drag themselves along made John feel tired too.
As he stretched and yawned, the blue spot in the crook of his right elbow caught his eye. He examined it in disapproval: the medical techs here could learn a bit about being gentle. But he wasn't too bothered: the bruise marked the entry point for the dissolving agent that his best friend had spent weeks perfecting. He'd been injected late last night, in accordance with Sherlock's instructions. If the formula actually worked, he'd cherish this mark until it faded, as an emblem of his salvation.
John checked his watch and saw that it was a few minutes past seven. He had been triggered at noon on the day Mycroft rescued him from Sergei's lair. Alexei had said that the bomb was programmed to go off at exactly the same time thirty days later. While most of Britain's citizens were on their lunch breaks today, John would either live or die.
As he stood on the roof, listening to the rumbling buses, honking car horns, and thrum of voices below, John thought about all the things he still wanted to do. Travel, for one. But not to a touristy sunspot: the ruins of Pompeii, perhaps, or the Civil War battle sites in America. He'd always loved places with historic significance. He also wanted to see Harry get off the booze for good, keep watching over Sherlock, and grow old with Mycroft.
John had enough faith in the combined brilliance of Sherlock and Alexei to believe that he would get his chance to do all that and more. But he could not be sure, so fear continued to erode his confidence.
Not wanting to be alone any more, he tossed the paper coffee cup away and went back inside. When he stepped out of the elevator onto the secure floor that contained everyone's sleeping quarters, the first thing he saw was the open door to Elena's room.
Despite the premium medical care, her deterioration had continued. Last week she'd lost the ability to walk unaided and now most of her nutrition came from an IV drip. Such incapacity must have been devastating to a woman who'd been so strong and agile, but she never complained.
Petra was asleep on a cot against the rear wall. The shadows under her eyes were so deep that they resembled smears of purple eye makeup. John worried for her as well as Alexei: Mycroft had granted her amnesty, but when she finally left this place, it would not be with the woman she loved. Like Elena, she remained outwardly brave, but John had noticed her trembling hands and pinched expression, and knew that her composure would leave with her partner's last breath.
God, don't let Mycroft have to suffer a similar loss….
Elena must have heard John exit the elevator, for she opened her eyes when he paused in the doorway. "John," she whispered.
He stepped quietly into the room. "Good morning."
"Today's the day?"
"Yes. At eleven-thirty, I go into the room. At noon, we all find out if the dissolving agent worked."
"The room" was an explosion-proof cell on the facility's lowest level. Government weapons developers tested newly engineered bombs in it. Today it would contain a man instead of an object.
Mycroft was sickened at the thought of John being locked in there alone to await potential annihilation, but they both knew that there was no safe alternative. Sherlock was agitated to the point of mania: after John had received the counter-agent, the detective instantly noticed the bruising around the needle mark and verbally throttled the med tech. Then he followed John everywhere, even into the toilet, and kept up a running litany of scientific explanations as to why the solution should work. When he finally yielded to exhaustion three hours ago, John felt guilty at the immensity of his relief.
Lestrade was being stoic, thank God. John was relying on Greg to keep the Holmes brothers -and later Harry- above water emotionally if the worst came to pass.
"You will survive, John," Elena told him. "Two of the best minds in the country engineered this antidote."
John shook his head slowly. "Alexei is extraordinary. Sometimes I forget he's just a kid."
"Most people do," she smiled.
When Elena, in the presence of John and Mycroft, had told Alexei who his father was, the boy's response surprised all of them. He did not get emotional, or even express anger at being deceived until now. He simply grinned and said, "I know. It's obvious." Then he rattled off the list of clues- their physical and mental similarities, Mycroft's history with his mother- that made his conclusion a natural one. When he was done, he faced Mycroft and said somewhat shyly, "I look forward to getting to know you better." There were no hugs, just a brief but warm handshake that conveyed more acceptance and feeling than words could have. John frequently saw them strolling together throughout the building afterward. "Catching up," Mycroft had explained. John presumed that was 'Holmes-speak' for "Getting to know each other."
Elena's eyes began to close. The brief conversation had already exhausted her. "There are other people you should be talking to now," she murmured. "I need to rest, but do come see me after it's over."
"I will. I promise."
When John went back into the hall, he saw Mycroft emerging from Sherlock's room. Although the elder Holmes was outwardly composed and immaculate- his handmade Italian leather shoes gleamed so brightly that John briefly got spots in his vision- his pale complexion and the lines around his eyes and mouth betrayed his inner unravelling.
"Is Sherlock still asleep?" John asked.
"Practically comatose." Mycroft shook his head. "If he continues to sleep, John, I'm not inclined to wake him when it's time to go-" he winced "-downstairs. I don't think he'd handle the waiting and the uncertainty well."
John touched his hand. "If you don't wake him and the worst happens, he'll never forgive you."
"I know. It's just that he's so fragile right now. He's been practically living in the lab since we arrived, and if I said that he ate an entire sandwich during that time, I'd probably be overestimating."
John didn't doubt it. He'd seen the untouched food trays left outside the lab door, and Sherlock's bed in his assigned room had never been slept in until now. "Be that as it may, we can't make that decision for him."
Mycroft inclined his head. "Perhaps you're right." He paused. "John, I see that you just came down from the roof- you've got soot on your left shoulder and a pigeon feather in your hair- but would you mind terribly if we went back outside? I'd like to… talk. Alone."
John rubbed his shirt sleeve and batted at his hair, grimacing at the dirty feather that floated loose. "Of course. Let's go."
When they stepped onto the roof, the sun was nearing full strength and the city was loud with commuter traffic. Mycroft undid his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and raised his face skyward as if seeking solace in the brilliant warmth. "John," he whispered, sounding broken.
"It's going to be all right, you know." John hugged him from behind. "We're all worried- me more than anyone. But Sherlock and Alexei put everything into it. What could possibly come out of that collaboration except the best case scenario?"
"Waiting is always the worst part," Mycroft agreed. He placed his hands over John's. "I never thought I'd see the day when Sherlock would actually like a child, let alone share lab space with one."
John chuckled as he recalled the powerful working partnership the two had forged. "I'm not surprised, personally. Even if he weren't Alexei's uncle, how could Sherlock not like someone who can recite the periodic table of elements backwards- in English, Polish, and Russian?"
That made the elder Holmes laugh. "I suppose that's true."
John manoeuvred in front of Mycroft and put his arms around his waist. "We've got four hours before the explosives team comes for me," he said softly. "Want to spend them up here?"
Mycroft drew him close. "I'm willing if you are."
As they kissed, John slid his hand into Mycroft's waistcoat, rubbing soothing circles over the other man's chest, which heaved beneath the fine linen shirt. They'd made love during the early morning hours, after Sherlock had fallen asleep, but John now longed for a repeat performance. He told himself that he was both expressing his love and soothing their mutual anxiety- not leaving Mycroft something to remember him by.
Mycroft groaned and was reaching for John's belt when the rooftop door opened. Lowering their hands quickly, both men turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, looking paler and thinner than usual. His expression was neutral, but John and Mycroft instantly saw that beneath the granite face, the younger Holmes was terrified.
"I didn't realize that this was a private moment," he said stiffly, eying their rumpled clothing.
"It's not." John extended his hand. "Come here."
Sherlock approached slowly. He looked ghastly: his already-high cheekbones threatened to poke through his skin, which was a grayish white color, his lips were bloodless, and his eyes had an unnatural, feverish gleam. His purple silk shirt was mottled in places with chemical burns, and his trousers were badly creased. As he drew closer, John's nose told him that the younger man hadn't showered after getting up.
"I'm aware that I look and smell reprehensible," Sherlock said. "But a change of clothes and a bath is not high on my list of priorities right now. In fact, I'm dismayed that I slept for so long."
"It's all right," Mycroft said gently. "John and I decided we'd wait up here until it was time to go to the basement."
"A wise idea. This building has a superb laboratory and reasonably comfortable accommodations, Mycroft, but it's staffed by idiots who think too loudly. Just listening to their inane blather makes me want to go into my mind palace and never come out."
"I'll see what I can do about improving hiring practices."
"Hey." John squeezed his friend's shoulder. "You holding up all right?"
"With difficulty, I admit." Sherlock brushed a few greasy curls from his eyes. "I shall be glad when this is over."
"We all will," Mycroft said.
The loud screech of a car abruptly braking startled all three of them. Sherlock, instantly attracted to potential disaster, hurried toward the roof's edge. When he leaned over to look, John's heart lurched and he cried, "NO!"
Mycroft jumped and Sherlock turned quickly around. "John?"
"Please…" John squeezed his eyes shut. "Just come away from the edge. Seeing you there brings up certain memories."
The younger Holmes looked chastened. "I'm sorry. I forgot." He retraced his steps. When he was standing before John, whose heartbeat was slowly returning to normal, he said in husky, beseeching tones, "See, I came back to you. Now promise that you'll come back to me."
"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, putting one arm around his brother's frail shoulders and pulling him close. For once, Sherlock did not deride the gesture as sentimental nonsense. Exhausted behind his normal resilience, he continued to gaze at his best friend. John choked back tears as he gave his word.
Eleven-thirty came too quickly.
Accompanied by Mycroft, Sherlock, Lestrade, and an eight-man military escort, John rode the elevator to the building's lowest level, which was so tightly guarded that only Mycroft's electronic ID card gave them entry. Dr. Mortensen, a short Norwegian who participated in Elena's care, met them when they stepped out of the elevator and led the way to a closet-sized prep room that contained a wheeled bed and small table. A surgical tray with a glass bottle, alcohol wipes, and a long needle sat atop the latter.
Sherlock caught his breath loudly when John climbed onto the bed and laid back. Lestrade and Mycroft carefully flanked the younger Holmes, ready to restrain him if his self-control broke.
"Do you have any questions, Dr. Watson?" Dr. Mortensen asked gently.
John shook his head. "No, everything's been explained to me. Let's get this over with. I'd hate to miss tea time."
Mycroft's chuckle sounded more like a sob. Sherlock turned to the doctor, so nervous that even his voice vibrated.
"He'll only be in that damned chamber for half an hour, right?"
"That's correct, Mr. Holmes. His vitals will be monitored the entire time. After thirty minutes, the crisis will officially be declared over and Dr. Watson will be transported to his room to recover."
"I want to participate in the monitoring."
"We'll all be in the surveillance room, Sherlock." Mycroft squeezed his brother's arm. "And when John wakes up, I'll force you to accept a Knighthood."
"I'll help him force you, you stubborn sod." John fought to keep his voice even. "Sherlock, I don't know how to thank you."
Sherlock didn't cry, but his glassy eyes and constant shivering warned that he was nearing a nervous collapse. He acknowledged John's words with a jerky nod and stared at the floor.
Dr. Mortensen glanced at the clock. "I'm sorry if this sounds insensitive, but time is running out. We have to proceed."
"We understand," Mycroft said. He moved closer to the bed and grasped John's hand, smiling weakly. "I shall see you later this afternoon. Tea at three?"
John nodded. He heard Dr. Mortensen fiddle with the items on the tray, just before an alcohol wipe made his nostrils and skin tingle. Then the fine-gauge needle slid painlessly into his bicep. As he gazed into Mycroft's eyes, which were now an unearthly shade of blue, John's heart swelled. He managed to say, "I love you" before darkness took the world away.
Part Seventeen